


When You Came In (The Air Went Out)

by Mozzarella



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, M/M, Orlais (Dragon Age), Spies & Secret Agents, Val Royeaux (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-03-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:14:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22313869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mozzarella/pseuds/Mozzarella
Summary: In which Hissrad, codename The Iron Bull, discovers what real desire tastes like, and Dorian (runaway mage, in-demand dancer at Val Royeaux's Glittering Pearl) learns to accept his.Written for the Adoribull Reverse Bang 2019. A modern magic Spy!Bull and Dancer!Dorian AU
Relationships: Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 24
Kudos: 118
Collections: The Collected Fanfics for the Adoribull Reverse Bang 2019





	1. Desire

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [[ART] When You Came In (The Air Went Out)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22309249) by [sorellaerba](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sorellaerba/pseuds/sorellaerba). 



> My own contribution to this event! The amazing (somewhat nsfw) art for this fic is here.
> 
> Due to some logistical issues on my side, part 2 will be posted tomorrow.

Val Royeaux, The First Year

Minrathous was undoubtedly the most advanced and cultured city of Thedas, but Val Royeaux certainly gave it a run for its money, despite barely being a quarter of its size. Orlais had a deep appreciation for the arts and some old architecture that made it feel distinct—not quite as ancient as Tevinter’s own, but certainly enough to transport anyone who walked beneath its gilded eaves to another era. 

Val Royeaux also had the distinction of being the south’s most debauched city, immoral and decadent in a way that reminded Dorian of home. He doubted he could have gotten work this glamorous for himself in  _ Ferelden,  _ and though both nations had about the same attitude towards magic in that Dorian wouldn’t be finding work with his so much as indefinite room and board in the Spire, Orlais seemed happy enough to allow mages to roam their streets without too many people talking so long as money went into the right pockets. 

It had been a trial, at first, realizing that the only magical work he could get in the city would be subject to strict Chantry scrutiny. Having two hands tied behind his back while he tried to cast would have been worlds easier than dealing with Southern Chantry meddling, being a necromancer as well as a mage from Tevinter. So while he never gave up magic in his own home, and carrying a staff outside seemed to garner little in the way of stares with few templars and many chevaliers paid to look the other way, Dorian became wary of using magic out in the open, and finding work with it was not an option for one such as him who was too proud (and too smart) to submit to Chantry rule. 

Fortunately, however, Dorian had a set of skills that seemed to be a market in Orlais, and he doubted anywhere else. Briefly he had found himself a rich Orlesian who had been enamoured by his “exotic” looks, and the man had showered him in gifts that Dorian shrewdly put to the side as assets for future use. He was like a piece of jewellery, using some of his little tricks to dazzle the man and his friends, staying firmly in his favour and playing on his ego as best he could. He was a passable sexual partner and kept entertained by going to many of Orlais' most exclusive underground establishments. 

One such place was the Glittering Pearl, a luxurious bar full of sparkling crystal and subtle magical illusion, which, much later in the evening, would provide more entertainment than simple food and drink. 

Late into the night, Dorian and his Orlesian patron and lover entered the bar to find that it had transformed entirely from its already elegant stylings, the crystalline bar transformed into a stage on which dancers draped in silks and covered in precious stones, leaving little to the imagination, performed only for those who could afford what it took to get through the door. 

The performances were stunning, or sensual, or both, feats of fantastical acrobatics somehow also bringing most attention to the dancer’s assets, from their perfectly shaped thighs and asses to the sparkling piercings in nipples, shapely tits almost entirely visible under sheer fabrics, and the sway of hips that mesmerised their audiences. 

Dorian was enthralled by the showmanship of it all, reminded of the kinds of shows he saw in Minrathous in the bustling lower districts where the nobility and the common people came together for the delights of good food and better entertainment. Those Dorian saw in Minrathous made freer use of magic in their performances, but he saw very little here beyond a few little sparkles loosed from one elven dancer’s fingertips that seemed subdued in comparison to their free movements. 

It was a blond elf with a sun-kissed complexion with tattoos along the side of his eyes that zeroed in on Dorian sitting by his patron-lover, giving a stunningly skilful leap off the stage, only to land in front of him and beckon him with an outstretched hand. Dorian obliged, preening like a peacock and letting his warmer robes slip from him, leaving him still modest but free to move along with the elf, whose tight musculature and the subtle scarring hidden under strategic swathes of silk intriguing Dorian even more. 

“Follow my lead,” he’d whispered into Dorian’s ear as he pulled him onto the stage with one strong arm, pressing his front against Dorian’s back and undulating lewdly against him in what was half dance, half sex act, which Dorian obligingly followed in perfect tandem, not losing his rhythm even as the elf began to loosen his buttoned shirt with clever hands, then pressing hot palms against Dorian’s bare skin when he had it opened all the way. 

Dorian was surprised when the elf trailed a hand down to his hip, then his inner thigh, before suddenly grabbing his opposite hand and spinning him around with a flourish, which Dorian allowed with grace of long practice, knowing how to shift weight and turn from handling and fighting with a staff. 

“The idea is to keep them wanting,” said the elf when he pulled Dorian in against his chest like they were engaging in a particularly amorous ballroom dance, and Dorian grinned, taking some lead by pulling the elf to the nearest vertical bar. Dorian didn’t quite have the grip strength or skill to do what he’d done, but he still danced around the bar like a planted staff, counterpoint to his partner’s own weaving steps and circles around him, brushing hands against sensitive places for only a breath. 

Dorian could see the small but clearly high class crowd fixated on their performance, and even more so on the novelty of an untrained guest playing like he was part of the show. He felt alive, more so than he had in a long time, and when his partner lifted him by the thighs to pin him against the bar, surprisingly strong, Dorian grabbed the bar behind him with hands above him, throwing his head back and letting a perfectly controlled stream of fire escape from his mouth in a huff, exploding into harmless sparkles like mini-fireworks and causing quite a ripple of shouts, cheers, and applause in response. 

“You have a talent for this, my friend,” said the elf breathlessly when he put Dorian down and raised his hand as a showman, pulling them both into elegant bows. “Correct me if I am mistaken, but you are, in fact, Tevinter, are you not?”

Dorian, slowly coming down from the high of the performance, felt his hackles rise, but the elf simply chuckled, giving him a not entirely chaste, yet clearly quite friendly, kiss on the cheek. 

“We all have reasons to be here in Orlais, my friend,” he said knowingly, “and I simply wished to know if you wouldn’t want to grace our showroom with our own  _ exotic Tevinter mage  _ to dance for the rich and powerful,” he continued, the emphasis on  _ exotic  _ making it clear that he had personal experience in having others describe him so. 

“Such as the  _ exotic  _ Antivan elf dancer, I suppose?” Dorian wondered. 

“Oh, my dear friend, I was no dancer before I came to this land,” said the elf in reply. “You do not have to decide now, but I am entirely certain you would be welcome among our ranks if you so chose. The pay is excellent, the place discreet, and if that is what you are in need of, it is an ideal situation.”

Dorian looked thoughtful, glancing back to his patron, who looked, unsurprisingly, worked up by the whole performance. 

“Whatever you decide, you are welcome here,” the elf repeated, gesturing to one of the servers who came over to hand Dorian an elegant card with a contact number etched into it. 

“What’s your name, if you don’t mind me asking?” Dorian said quietly just as they parted at the edge of the stage. “In case they ask me who referred me.”

“Tell them it was Zevran who invited you to our ranks,” said the elf—Zevran—with a charming, roguish smirk. “But really, all you need do is tell them you are the Tevinter who gave them the best show they’ve had in months, and you’ll be dancing your own sets in no time.”

Dorian pocketed the card and returned to the man he came in with, no decisions yet, but considering the possibilities regardless. 

It was a stroke of luck that had Dorian in his own quiet, cramped apartment where he kept his things in storage more than anything, the night his lover was arrested for plotting against Empress Celene—which, if Dorian had the right of this man, was probably simply his own loud and unsubtle bragging about doing a job for men who had clear ties to the empress’ cousin and political rival, Gaspard. 

Very little about this chain of events affected Dorian overmuch on a personal level, as the man was only ever passable in sexual prowess, not particularly intelligent or interesting, and substituting that lack of personality with money he was rather free with, not out of any generous nature, but out of some need to prove himself despite clearly being no more than a pathetic sycophant to men and women with more ambition and intelligence than he himself possessed. 

Dorian benefited from that need for approval, with the man giving him enough gifts that he could keep or pawn to keep himself comfortable. The only real emotion his arrest inspired in Dorian was urgency, to find another place to stay in case someone mentioned his existence and Orlais’ authorities tried to link him with the idiot’s harebrained schemes in supporting Gaspard. 

He found himself a much larger apartment to house himself in, having sold a few trinkets for a pretty penny and pocketing much of the loose coin he’d taken off his unfortunate lover when he had been particularly deep in his cups. He couldn’t keep this up for too long, not without income of his own, and this was how Dorian Pavus found himself calling the number on the card he’d had saved. 

The woman he spoke to was a pleasant-sounding Antivan who he thought might only be running the cafe and bar that the establishment was for most of the day, with how professionally and not remotely secretly she conducted herself. But when Dorian indicated the work he’d been offered, she was quick to set up a meeting, and soon Dorian found himself having a pleasant brunch with the Glittering Pearl’s manager, one Josephine Montilyet, who, it seemed, was in charge of every aspect of the venue’s daily dealings, up to and including its late nightly ones. 

“The Glittering Pearl prides itself on its secrecy, and safety,” she said. “Should there be difficulty in your transition, we reserve the right to act accordingly in order to preserve our reputation.”

Dorian nodded, feeling the beginnings of a pit yawning in his stomach. 

“That said,” Josephine continued, looking warm, “if all you wish to do is work hard and establish yourself, the Pearl will ensure your safety in every aspect. Why, many of our staff have come from all over, and it has become something of a… home, for some. We protect our own, Messere Pavus. And if you decide that you are part of this arrangement, I promise you that we will keep your safety and privacy our priority. And if you don’t mind me saying, your performance was one of the most impressive we’ve had in a while!” 

Her face lit up as she said this, and Dorian flushed, unused to such earnest praise. “We’ve had a few acts of magic in our repertoire, but you handle yourself so differently. I’ve only ever seen such from Rivain, but I hear of such openness in Tevinter. You would be a great addition to our roster if you find the arrangement agreeable, Messere.” 

Dorian drummed his fine ringed fingers over the table thoughtfully. It all seemed rather ideal--well, as ideal as he could get down in the south. 

“You must understand,” said Dorian, “my current circumstances make my arrangements exceptionally difficult to maintain. Not only am I a mage, which in the south has its own issues, but I’m a necromancer to boot, and of Tevinter. Even one of these might bring you hardship, but all three?”

He had no reason to sell himself short, and he needed the income, but Josephine seemed like a decent sort, and for all that Dorian liked to play the selfish Tevinter mage, he had always been a soft touch. Decent people didn’t deserve to get into the shit Dorian’s mere presence could rain upon their heads. 

“I know of how Orlais sees mages, and I personally have… something to get away from, which is why I’m here in the south. You clearly run one of the finest establishments in the city, and I do not wish for my troubles to darken your doorstep.”

Josephine looked thoughtful, whipping out a clipboard and writing something without looking down with a practiced, professional hand. 

“Messere, I can safely say that you’re not the first to have personal issues among our staff,” said Josephine, “and I am doubtful that your issues are much more dangerous than others. We take in talents from all over, and their specialties are often born of more complicated histories than even the absconded son of a prominent Tevinter Magister.” 

Dorian near dropped the drink he had been sipping from in shock. 

“You--” 

“We are a very highly regarded establishment with very elite clientele, Messere Pavus,” said Josephine knowingly. “We do background checks where needed.” 

Her tone and look softened even more, putting Dorian at ease despite every good sense of his screaming at him to keep his guard up. 

“If you wish to join us, you will have the best protection we can give you. The best Val Royeaux money can buy, which, I’m sure you’ve realised, is more than most people will ever see their entire lives. Zevran has vouched for you, and we’ve checked on your background and deemed you a worthwhile risk. But it is not a matter we wish to force, no matter how extravagant and fantastical we imagine your shows will be,” Josephine said warmly. 

“It sounds too good to be true, my lady,” said Dorian after a few moments of quiet where both sipped their drinks and picked at their light meal. 

“As I said, yours isn’t the most dangerous element we have to deal with,” said Josephine. “But we pay good money for security and discretion. Should he let his guard down around you, you should ask Zevran what he was doing before he became one of our best dancers and escorts.” 

Dorian’s eyes widened in surprise. “So those are… services rendered as well?” he said cautiously. 

“Only by the willing,” Josephine assured. “And Zevran enjoys the work. He has a knack for it, and he and our resident Rivaini, Isabela, have found a way to turn a profit on what they enjoy doing for free. We can negotiate such in your contract, if you’re interested. Currently, we have you written up as a performer, and nothing more.” 

Josephine handed him an elegant, dark-coloured envelope, in which he found his contract. He hummed consideringly, eyes scanning each page quickly and taking in every clause he wished to clarify--though all his considerations fled right out his ears when he saw the sum he was being promised for his services. 

“My dear lady,” said Dorian. “Though I never sign without reading, and I certainly won’t start now… I think it’s safe to say that you’ve found yourself a new performer.” 

* * *

Val Royeaux, The Fourth Year - Spring

It wasn’t exactly the strangest place for a meeting, though Hissrad would’ve preferred something a little more discreet. Though to be fair to the contact, everything about Val Royeaux was opulent, extravagant and dramatic, so anything less than that would be in itself suspicious. 

Where Hissrad had gotten used to dead drops and unremarkable sit-downs at parks or meetings at cheap dive bars, all business in Val Royeaux seemed to be conducted with flair, relying on the most expensive sort of privacy to keep prying eyes away. 

Even though it was being paid for by their seemingly endless budget, Hissrad felt leery about buying drinks from such a fancy place, even if he didn’t show it in the way he draped himself across one of the large seats situated in front of the stage, feigning easygoing casualness while he scanned the room for threats or traps. 

He ingratiated himself to the gorgeous, buxom woman serving drinks at the bar by speaking to her in the rougher strain of Rivaini more commonly heard on the docks used by their pirates, and she licked her lips as he loosened his collar and her eyes seemed to strip him bare. 

If he weren’t on the job… but really, if things went well tonight, a quick tumble with a willing partner wouldn’t be the worst way to wind down from a long working evening. 

He settled in and sipped his drink as the lights dimmed and music flared, and a couple of dancers began giving an impressive show on the vertical bars, the man’s muscles tight as he lifted himself up and out and the woman’s thighs solid as she leaned far out to give coquettish winks and waves at the crowd, as though she wasn’t performing great feats of core body strength with only her legs keeping her from falling right off. 

Hissrad wished he could enjoy the show more, but shutting his awareness off wasn’t something he did on the job, and he noticed the shadowy figure moving toward him long before he saw them, and a surprisingly delicate-looking woman with short red hair and a fine but simple evening gown and sheer scarf took a graceful seat next to Hissrad, one delicate finger raised toward the bar and an equally delicate glass of champagne immediately served to her by a passing waiter. 

“I hope you’re enjoying the performance,” said the woman after some time, when the two dancers--who Hissrad suspected were siblings, even twins, despite looking just different enough around the edges to not be certain--finished their routine and took their bows. 

“Watching attractive people flutter over a stage while drinking fine Orlesian alcohol? Definitely a luxury,” said Hissrad amicably. 

“I hear that you don’t get very many of those under the Qun,” said the woman. Her accent was Orlesian, a hint of the Southern countryside smoothed by the high society accent Hissrad heard from the masked nobility. 

“Luxury, no. But we do have our fair share of good drink and dance, mind you,” he responded. 

“Indeed.” The woman turned to him, holding out a hand in greeting. “You may call me Sister Nightingale, if it pleases.” 

Only from years in this line of work did Hissrad not allow the name to give him pause. 

Any spy worth their salt knew of the Left Hand, the knife in the shadow, and she who ran much, if not all of the Orlesian underground network. Hissrad knew of her description, but it surprised him that she would come to a meeting she could well have delegated to her many agents.

“Bull,” said Hissrad. “The Iron Bull, if that helps,” he added. This was the code name assigned to him for his work in the South, for spies with the name Liar wouldn’t make a very good first impression. 

Hissrad--Bull, for the duration of his stay--was sent on this mission not because he was the most discreet (his horns and enormity and one missing eye prevented that from the get-go) nor the most skilled of the Ben Hassrath, but because he was the most charming and adaptable, something that, for all their strengths, the Qun did not see too often among their kin. 

There were many Viddathari in Orlais disguised as labourers or servants, elves and humans alike, and though it was likely that at least a handful of the Orlesian spy networks they’d run across knew of their existence, it was still deemed wisest to send a Qunari for this mission, to negotiate the terms of the arrangement they wished to make with the shadowy authorities working underneath Val Royeaux’s gilded surface. 

Hissrad was nominated specifically because of his skill at absorbing Southern customs and putting it before him as a Karasaad would a shield, and his fine grasp of a great many languages didn’t hurt at all. 

Of all the agents the Ben-Hassrath had sent to the South, it was the Liar named that would do best in Orlais, the capital of liars outside Tevinter, and so he worked, offering an exchange of information and resources and expecting to get more than he was giving. 

“Before we begin,” said Nightingale, as Bull opened his mouth to speak, “let us enjoy tonight’s entertainment. Our next performer is quite special, he only performs twice in a week, and the demand for him has only grown. You’re very lucky to have come at such an opportune time, The Iron Bull.” 

Bull played along, settling back against the comfortable seat and watching the lights go down dark onstage. He felt the familiar stirrings of something in the air and a vein jumped at his jaw at the familiar tang of Tevinter magic that he remembered from his days in Seheron, the kind that signaled the arrival of a powerful mage, no lower than a Laetan and sometimes high enough to be a magister. 

Very quickly he considered and discarded several possibilities, the most pressing of which was that this was an ambush and he was being handed over to some Tevinter magister who was paying well for the capture of an enemy agent--but then there was a crackle in the air as lightning began to dance along every vertical bar, which distracted many from the main event that slunk gracefully to the centre of the stage in the dark. 

There was a little explosion as the lightning burst into sparkles across the nearest seats, and the crackling magical lights centred on a cloaked figure, whose delicate, ringed hands peeked out from billowing sleeves, before the man revealed his face with a calculated, sultry slide of fabric falling from skin. 

He was Tevinter, Bull could see immediately, but if he had to be honest with anyone, it would have to be to himself, admitting that he had never seen a Tevinter as gorgeous or perfect a specimen as the one who stood before them, drawing every eye in the room with the gold powder sparkling on his high cheekbones or the perfectly styled mustache that did nothing to hide the lush, clever lips smiling beneath. 

When he dropped his cloak, he was fully naked but for a pair of glittering smalls and two scarves apiece on his arms, which he counted silently for the audience with a teasing smile. He then began to dance, and it was nothing like Bull had ever seen before. 

The man was a mage, and of fine breeding besides, that much was already clear. But there was an energy to him well beyond any sort of magic, a passion that Bull felt the sudden, desperate need to meet with his own. It was a desire, a want that he felt deep in his bones, and he had to take a sharp breath through his nose when he realised that decades of controlling himself and his emotions couldn’t prepare him for this yearning for another that he felt in his deepest places. 

If he didn’t have such a vast library of spells and their effects in his head fighting Vints on Seheron, Bull would have thought the man had ensorceled him. But he knew that this was just want, the kind he never understood in Bas until just now.

This man, whoever he was, was dangerous, in ways that Bull could not possibly have prepared for. 

As the dance went on, the man pulled scarves out of seemingly nowhere, dancing with a power and fluidity that Bull recognised as the staff flourishes of well-trained mages in Tevinter, but done only for show. It was clear, however, that this man had no problem utilising his talents in his chosen craft, with subtle sparks and illusory flame coming off the ends of the silk and sheer cloth.

At a pause in the music, the man looked up, his chest heaving from the exertion, and Bull saw his eyes widen imperceptibly when they met his remaining one, clearly unused to seeing a Qunari so far South, and in such a private establishment besides. But his cocksure demeanour didn’t wane--the shock, perhaps, only egged him on, and he began what Bull assumed from the rising drumbeat and the music’s crescendo was the final part of the performance. 

Flames erupted from behind the Tevinter dancer, eliciting gasps from the seats behind Bull, and the man began to throw his scarves to various people sitting along the edges of his grand stage, each fluttering into eager hands with the help of some subtle magic, until he was left with only one made from dark shimmering material that looked like someone had cut a piece of the night sky away and gifted it to this mage as a token. 

The man then came forward until he stood right in front of the wide-horned Qunari, looking imperiously down at him from beneath dark lashes before holding a hand out. Bull doubted he could pull the full weight of a full-grown Qunari warrior onto the stage, but he took the hand anyway, and instead of trying to lead him into the performance, the man simply stepped forward onto Bull’s knee (the good one, whether by fortune or by design, if the Tevinter had enough presence of mind to see the brace under Bull’s pants in the dim lighting of the room) and draped himself across his lap, wrapping the scarf around Bull’s horns and brushing lips and mustache against his cheek before pulling back and jumping right back up onto the stage with seemingly little effort. 

The climax was explosive, with the man blowing fire out his mouth like a dragon, a stream that plumed upwards then suddenly came down on the last drumbeat, and when the smoke (contained to the stage, a sign of remarkable control), cleared, the man was gone. 

The applause was deafening for a place so relatively small, and Bull couldn’t help but chuckle at the irony of his situation--a spy from Par Vollen coming to Orlais and finding a high class Tevinter mage performing great feats of magic, and  _ enjoying  _ it. 

“He favours you,” said the Nightingale when the noise began to die down and a few quick and competent servers began cleaning what was left of the performance. “T’is a lucky thing, when so many people are vying for our dragon’s attention. He provides other services, as well. More personal ones,” she said, pausing to take a sip from her drink. “And very rarely are other men granted the right to request it.”

Bull noted her use of “men” rather than “people” or “patrons”, and was starting to get a clearer picture of why a high class Tevinter mage would be performing for Orlesians in an underground bar. 

“I don’t mix business with pleasure,” Bull responded. 

The Nightingale tilted her head. “A shame for you,” she said, before turning to face him fully, holding a hand out and receiving a file from a passing waiter so smoothly that nobody would have noticed it save for Bull, who was watching every move with the expectation of betrayal or hostility. 

Honest only to himself, however, Bull had to admit that the thought held promise. 


	2. Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the two collide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got busy at work, then got sick. I feel terrible for not turning this in on time, but I don't want to delay it any more, so I'm going to leave the last part for the weekend. Sorry and thank you for the amazing comments!

Val Royeaux, The Fourth Year - Summer

“Oh, oh my! Your admirer’s back,” Merrill trilled as Dorian smoothed the powder over his cheeks. There were perks to only having to come in three days in a week, but his need to make everything perfect always set his teeth just that littlest bit on edge. 

“You’ll have to be more specific, sweet girl. You know our peacock has many admirers,” Zevran teased from the other side of him, his head so low as to nearly touch the floor despite his straightened knees, stretching his muscles in preparation for his wildly acrobatic set. 

“The big one,” Merrill said, sounding pleased she was in on some secret that Zevran had no doubt put in her head. Whether it was true or not was entirely dependent on the Antivan’s mood, and even after four years of friendship, some nights of passion and a surprisingly steadfast trust in each other, Dorian still couldn’t parse what stories Zevran told of his time before Orlais were true. 

He knew that Zevran had, in fact, been killing for a living before coming under Leliana and Josephine’s care and employ, and he knew that Zevran had either been one of the famed (and feared) Antivan Crows, or else simply had an impossible number of them holding a grudge against him personally. These were the outlandish and somewhat disturbing truths that comforted Dorian when he sometimes thought about the dangers he might bring to the Pearl, knowing that, for all the troubles of his past, he probably couldn’t top the multiple assassination attempts brought to Zevran Aranai and the Glittering Pearl’s doorstep, often thwarted and cleaned up with silent professionalism by the Nightingale’s agents. 

“Oh, the portly fellow who’s always wishing for favours but unable to catch anyone’s eye but that of the waiter bringing him the cheap wines?” 

“No, the Qunari!” said Merrill, and Dorian froze, struck by the image of the one eye looking at him with a hunger that brought Dorian fear and excitement in equal measure. 

The man was hard to miss, and Dorian had engaged Isabela and Zevran in some bawdier discussions about him and the size of his… horns, ones which quickly turned into discussions of what kind of life-threatening and shadowy work he must be doing, to be dealing directly with Nightingale herself under the scrutiny of her many agents, and seemingly unfazed by the whole ordeal. 

From the way he sat alone, he was the most easygoing Qunari Dorian had ever seen, and he had seen more than most, apart from Isabela, who had encountered many in Rivain before she fled on her purported pirate ship and arrived in Orlais without it. Qunari were, as a rule, rigid and stone-faced, and for all that this man’s looks matched that of many Qunari warriors, he sat like he hadn’t a care in the world, one eye half lidded and smile leaning toward sumptuous. He’d taken Dorian’s initial tease from the first night with aplomb, allowing Dorian to do as he wished and looking in every way unaffected. 

Apart from his eye, which burned with something underneath that Dorian recognised as desire, but hiding behind a controlled facade that Dorian could only see through after years dealing with the best of liars in Tevinter. 

Along with Varric, who was eager to be up to date with the most interesting news (and gossip) in the Pearl, they speculated that he was perhaps Tal-Vashoth, exchanging valuable information from beyond Orlais’ borders with Leliana, whose network was powerful but somewhat insular. 

Dorian didn’t think so, though he kept that to himself, for he couldn’t explain it if he tried. Something about the man screamed Qunari despite every feature and behaviour doing the exact opposite. It could perhaps also have been a remnant of his earlier days fantasising about being captured by some brutish Qunari during Tevinter’s ridiculous and purposeless war, but having grown up in Qarinus, Dorian couldn't pretend he wasn't well aware of what Ben-Hassrath were, or that he was at least 95% sure that that was what the man who frequented the Pearl on nights Dorian was performing was. 

The man always looked at Dorian like something special, though Dorian couldn't be certain of his intentions. He'd gifted the man his favour the first night but the Qunari hadn't yet cashed that particular cheque. Perhaps he didn't know the significance of the gesture, though it was unlikely the staff hadn’t informed him of what it meant.

Dorian was eager to give the Qunari a private show, and the uncertainty of the danger of this venture only made it more alluring. 

For the most part, with how much money he was bringing in for the Pearl, Dorian only really needed to come in twice a week. He did, however, enjoy dancing with Zevran, though he couldn't keep up with the man's acrobatic performances, and on rare occasions, he'd be called in when his favour was to be "returned to him" and he could give some choice men a private show that might turn into something more. 

It wasn't something he did for money, though the more well-versed in soliciting such services left Dorian some fantastic tips or trinkets in appreciation. Dorian enjoyed the freedom of being able to sleep with fine men, handsome ones or rich ones or well-mannered ones or interesting ones. Very rarely did they refuse Dorian's wiles, though Dorian remembered the one time he had danced for a man who had been so nervous and shaking when finally given the opportunity to touch that Dorian had to calm him down, assure him that nothing was wrong - for he was fearful of his own attractions, and had gotten so far only on Ferelden stubbornness, for that was where he hailed from. 

Dorian hadn't slept with Cullen, but he found a welcome friend in him, and a contact in Ferelden who had ties to Leliana and Josephine, as well as knowledge as a former templar. 

Dorian had considered giving him a call when he first gave his token out to the Qunari agent (for Dorian was sure that was what he was), for Cullen had told him once through a detailed letter about finding a Tal-Vashoth partner who he would never have approached had Dorian not eased him into his attraction for men as well as women. He and Cullen would sometimes talk over the phone, but for great revelations such as this, it was clear the old soldier was more comfortable writing his thoughts out onto a page. It didn't stop Dorian from ribbing him about it later, which Cullen took with grace.

For all that Dorian had experienced far and above Cullen in terms of sexual conquest, unlike Cullen, he'd never slept with a Qunari. He hoped his private show would lead to that, though he doubted his friendship would survive if he called Cullen up right now and asked how to deal with Qunari cock. 

It was an exciting prospect, nonetheless, if not particularly wise. There was, after all, a vast difference between Qunari and Tal-Vashoth. 

* * *

When Dorian danced this night, it was full of lusty excitement, hope even in the face of unusual circumstances. The man, the Qunari, wore a fine but simple jacket that was clearly too large for any Orlesian to wear, and still tight on his frame and bulging muscles. Parts of his dance were dedicated to looking the man right in the eye, reaching out with his hands. 

Years in Tevinter had taught him not to want, and now when he wanted, he reached out and took if it was given freely, and he could tell from the hidden want in the Qunari’s eyes that he knew the feeling, but differently than Dorian did. In Tevinter, desires could be slaked in the dead of night, away from prying eyes, but these couldn’t be tolerated in the light of day. What Dorian wanted was for his desires, his passion, to not be a dirty, wrong thing, to be free to love men without it being a secret or a lie. 

For Qunari, at least from what little Dorian knew of them (which was more than those in the South could ever know), desiring anything at all was a dirty thing, and it wasn’t the act that brought shame, but the purpose - or lack thereof - behind it. 

But no natural being in Thedas was incapable of wanting, not even the indoctrinated Qunari, and certainly not this man that looked at him like no other had, with a hunger that wasn’t simple, drunken, lust, but with so much beneath the surface. 

And Dorian wanted nothing more than to see whatever this was through. 

* * *

The Iron Bull’s mission was proving more insightful than when he first began, and not in the way he’d expected. 

For one thing, the information the Nightingale had provided him of Tal-Vashoth living as refugees in Orlais’ outer territories didn’t align with what he’d been told by his superiors, the harm of Tal-Vashoth lost from the Qun near non-existent with the footage Nightingale had handed over in exchange for information about a specific Sten being groomed to replace the sitting Arishok (who was beginning to show signs of extremism that the other two of the Triumvirate, as well as their representatives, were becoming wary of). 

He’d gone over the footage in his hotel room, as well as a few files compiled tracking the Tal-Vashoth in question, which were mostly deserters from their Karataam during some military occupations closer to the south, but also included a couple of Tamassrans and craftspeople that were part of a larger group that had escaped some years prior. 

He found peaceful people. Warriors turned farmers or guardsmen, a small settlement in one of the villages that flourished with crop and hard workers, and even children of familial units, though the communal aspect of the Qun seemed not lost on them, as they lived near each other and spent time helping one another without need for payment. 

Perhaps he could bring it up to his superiors, the misinformation they’d been fed about Tal-Vashoth rampaging across Orlais. 

The mission had proven insightful, and in some ways, shocking, but it was work of only a few days in a week, and Bull was feeling restless of late, his eyes always trailing back to the sparkling black scarf that was folded neatly on his bedside table right under the lamplight. 

He’d come back on nights the dancer - who, after some flirting and friendly chatter with the Rivaini barwoman (who Bull learned was named Isabela, spoke like a woman who belonged on the sea rather than inland, and who was very interested in getting him into bed), Bull found out was named Dorian - was on, and their eyes would always find each other, even in the dark. 

It didn’t take long for Bull to connect the name Dorian to a well-known house in Tevinter, with articles he was able to research indicating that the man had been MIA despite being a social butterfly and pariah, the picture of a rich altus living for the nightlife in Minrathous, if only he hadn’t been caught making out with men and thereby ruining his family’s reputation. 

He sent that information out to his contacts, but he doubted there would be any action taken. Keeping the sole heir to a political family away from Tevinter was all they could really want, and this mage was clearly harmless, for all that he lit fires in the club every night he was on. 

Well, harmless as a whole. But to Bull, he represented something even more dire and dangerous, especially when Bull couldn’t pull his eye away even to look out for threats when Dorian Pavus kept looking at him like he was all he wanted. 

Damn, but he needed to get laid. Needed to get this out of his system. Clearly, he was obsessing, and curious, and both these could be solved with a night with the mage, who, according to Isabela, had absolutely been waiting for Bull to take him up on his offer, which Bull realised right then had been the “favour” of the scarf that he was expected to “give back”, a hilariously covert action to assign to something as simple as sex. 

He’d held off for a while, because this Dorian was a distraction Bull couldn’t afford. This night, two weeks later, however, Bull was finally left waiting for further instructions, and had nothing else to do but be distracted, and perhaps he could finally let his racing mind and heart rest. 

He discreetly asked for the opportunity to “return” the scarf to Dorian Pavus, and was later in the night led to a dark room that he could only see in due to his better Qunari vision. 

It didn’t take long for someone to join him in the dark, and a voice - sultry, as lovely as he looked, and too fitting by far - purred at him from where the man stood by the small raised platform with a single vertical bar. 

“Would you like me to dance for you, Messere?” Dorian asked. 

“I kinda figured you were doing that already,” said Bull, smirking. 

“Bold of you to believe it was for you that I dance my heart out,” said Dorian, voice shivering at the sound of Bull’s, which was low and hungry, but more easygoing than any other Qunari. 

“Well I like where my boldness has gotten me so far,” said Bull, still smiling. “But wouldn’t a dance be better where we’d both get to see it?”

“I’m rather comfortable in the dark. Aren’t you?” Dorian teased. “But you’re right. Why don’t you give me your name, and I’ll give us some light?”

“Bull,” was the answer. “The Iron Bull, if you think you can scream all that,” Bull added, his voice pitching lower with the tease and coming out as more of a growl than he anticipated.

He could see Dorian shiver, eyes half-lidded and mouth stretched in a smile that he believed Bull couldn’t see, tongue licking his lips in anticipation. 

“Bold, indeed, if not particularly clever. Alright Bull. You may call me Dorian,” he answered, before a dark, soft light lit the room just enough to bathe them both in shadow, revealing Dorian in full detail as being entirely naked, but for a pair of undergarments that left little to the imagination. 

“Let me touch you,” Bull said, unable to help himself. It wasn’t something he’d just have asked outright, if he’d been intending to continue their little game, but there was something about Dorian that just pulled it right out of him. 

Dorian grinned, surprisingly warm. “Not yet,” he said, and jumped up the platform to give Bull a show which was more sensual than the ones he’d already been performing on the nights he was the star attraction, something Bull really hadn’t thought possible. 

What he gave Bull was nothing like his performances onstage. It wasn’t the measured, well-practiced dance of a master or artisan, but an offering. In tradition of old Orlesian theatre, Dorian was, with the arch of his back and the way his mouth fell slightly open, playing the not altogether unwilling sacrifice who wanted nothing more than to be taken in fulfillment. 

With no words at all, he was begging to be fucked. And Bull would oblige. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bull settles in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I originally intended for this to be much shorter but now I'm adding an epilogue because feelings?

Val Royeaux, The Fourth Year - Fall

Dorian awoke to the chill of the incoming fall - milder than what he would find in Ferelden, yet still far too unreasonable for someone who was used to warmer climes. With what he earned from the Glittering Pearl, he was able to luxuriate in a bed much too big for him, but the perfect size for his more pressing needs. 

As much as Dorian liked to sink into his too-large bed, having the enormous, solid weight resting against his back was much preferable, especially in this weather. 

He pressed his chilled toes against a scarred leg and felt the Bull tense in waking before he kicked Dorian’s feet away, turning over carefully to avoid braining Dorian with his horns. 

Dorian laughed softly, cuddling into Bull’s warmth like a cat finding sunlight. 

“Don’t get up,” said Dorian when Bull shifted. “You’re so warm, I’m not letting you go until summer comes.”

“Promises, promises,” Bull rumbled, pulling the blankets back over them both to trap the warmth. Dorian purred in contentment, pulling a laugh out of the larger man, warming him even further. 

This was not entirely what Dorian expected when he first welcomed the Bull into bed. They’d pawed at each other in the dark and Bull had had Dorian sit on his shoulders to show his appreciation for his “dance”, and it was then that Dorian realised that, no matter how much he’d prepared for the experience of sleeping with a Qunari, nothing could prepare him for sleeping with The Iron Bull.

Or everything that came after. 

Not only was the Qunari a skilled and considerate lover, but Dorian had found him highly intelligent and surprisingly witty, with information about Orlesian politics that could only come from a spy’s packet, but with insight that couldn’t be gleaned without a sharp mind. Bull seemed happy enough to wear the facade of a jovial Tal-Vashoth, but it didn’t take long for Dorian to bring up his observation about the way Bull held himself, the way his eye observed and catalogued everything in the room during his nightly meetings in the Pearl with Leliana or other guests that were much more than simply exclusive. 

Bull had laughed, growled “Clever Vint” in the deep way he knew affected Dorian down to his core, and had asked him whether it scared him, to be sharing a bed with a spy for the Qun. 

“Unless you’re here to serve my father, a magister of the Imperium, I don’t truly have anything to fear from you,” Dorian had replied mildly, and Bull had given a full-belly laugh that startled him out of any hint of nervousness. 

“Dorian, I’m not here for you. Well, I’m here,” Bull said, gesturing broadly to his reclining body as they both reveled in the afterglow of what could only be called a marathon of pleasure, “for you. But coming to Orlais… this wasn’t exactly what I was expecting to do.” 

“Oh?” Dorian hummed thoughtfully. “So I’m just a convenient and particularly appealing distraction, then.” 

“Not sure if I’m supposed to answer that or if you know I’ll only try to soothe your ego by telling you you’re fucking amazing,” Bull said, and Dorian only raised one well-manicured eyebrow in response. “But yes. That’s all you are. A distraction. One I can enjoy until I get orders that say otherwise.”

Bull glanced over at him, as if gauging his reaction. Dorian wondered if this was the part where most would be offended, but Dorian knew too much of the Qun to feel offended by something he already knew was a likelihood. 

There was no love under the Qun. This was a dream, and a dangerous one. But Dorian had already resigned himself to taking what he could, and he would have regretted it if he hadn’t at least tried. 

“As long as your orders don’t come until summer. I don’t want to have to waste my electric bill keeping the heat on too high,” Dorian said, shrugging, and then laying himself out over Bull’s broad chest to take in as much of the Qunari’s warmth as he could.

“Glad to be useful,” Bull chuckled, pulling the upset sheets back over Dorian’s back and laying a large hand on the swell of his arse, giving it a light squeeze. 

Bull was crass, like that. An easygoing, yet wonderfully skilful lay, with a terrible sense of humour. 

But more than that, Bull was…. kind. He was considerate enough to ensure Dorian was warm through the night, had painkillers and water ready for him in the morning when he drank too much after partying a little too hard. He was a stickler for consent when they played with scenarios that had every opportunity to go wrong, even when Dorian had played with enough men in the past to expect trouble. 

He remembered Dorian’s drink at the bar, and how he took his coffee when he awoke just shy of noon (sweet and creamy, which Dorian would never admit to even his closest friends) after a work night. 

Maybe it was selfish, for Dorian knew of duty more than most. But he hoped the Qun would wait to take this… wonderful, sweet, thoughtful man, their spy and named liar, away from his bed and his life. 

* * *

Val Royeaux, The Ninth Year - Fall

Weeks of waiting stretched onto months. Months, to years. It wouldn’t be too long before Bull had been Bull longer than he’d been Hissrad. 

After the first year, he received word that the higher ups in Par Vollen couldn’t be certain that the Tal-Vashoth weren’t still a threat, even if for now, like a quiet volcano, they remained dormant til the next destructive eruption. 

Part of it, however, Bull knew, was internal conflict and restructuring as the old Arishok was deposed, with a new, hornless representative from the Antaam taking over without the world knowing that there was any conflict within the Qun at all. 

The same way they would never admit they were wrong about the Tal-Vashoth in Orlais. and had to keep Bull there to save face. 

Damn politics. Inescapable, even in Par Vollen, though you wouldn’t know it from how the messengers who Bull actually had the opportunity to talk to, instead of getting word from dead drops, acted like what he was getting was an important, life-affirming mission instead of a shit job watching for something that’d never happen. 

But maybe he was just getting too old for this shit. 

He tried not to think about it - tried real hard, starting with a familiar face he ran into skulking around the club’s exterior when he came in to visit Dorian before his show started. 

“Well look what the cat dragged in,” Bull had exclaimed, smacking the young man hard on the back and nearly bowling him right over. 

“Holy- Iron fucking Bull. I didn’t expect to see you here of all places!” Krem Aclassi exclaimed, punching Bull full force in the arm, hard enough to bruise and bringing a wide grin to Bull’s face. 

“What, I’m not fancy enough for this place? You think I’m here to lose my other eye fighting off an asshole or five while I sip some weak sparkly Orlesian wine?” Bull said, throwing an arm around Krem’s shoulders before the younger man could even think of feeling guilty - which he had the tendency to do every time the details of their first meeting were brought up. 

“I heard about this place from a… someone,” Krem said shiftily. “Said they’d take in anyone honest who’d work, even if they have something they’re trying to get away from. Especially if they have something they’re trying to get away from.”

Bull’s features softened, and he gave Krem a gentler pat on the arm. “Yeah. It’s a good place. They even got a Vint here, trying to get away from all the bullshit. Come on in, I know the manager.”

The job Krem eventually settled on after that was guard and bouncer, training hard enough in the mornings that he could lift a man and toss him like a sack of garbage with little to no effort. Josephine took a shine to the young man, and he often sat with her as she did accounting, his own sharp mind (“Learned it from sitting with my da’,” Krem had explained) picking up on the complex web of influence and businesses that Josephine had spun and eventually coming to Bull with an offer. 

“You know your way around the countryside,” Krem had said, and Bull was tempted to tell him he only knew of such because of his surveillance work on the as of yet peaceful Tal-Vashoth settlements. “Everyone’s got some jobs they need doing that might be a little too dangerous for your average journeyman. And Josie told me a good, established mercenary company would do well in a city like Val Royeaux.”

“It definitely would,” Bull had said absently while flipping through the proposal Krem had written up. It wasn’t a bad idea, and Bull had been chafing from the inactivity. Even with the assurances from on high, he didn’t like eating up resources that could be used for better things in the motherland, and getting a job that gave him contractual leave to beat the shit out of people and possibly kill a couple of really bad ones sounded like exactly the kind of thing he needed. 

This was how, with some branding advice from Josephine and a job or two from Leliana, The Bull’s Chargers became an established little group in Orlais, starting with Krem and Bull teaming up with a Ferelden field medic Bull took to calling Stitches and a bloodthirsty alienage elf with a bone to pick and many daggers on her person that Bull at first labeled Stabby in his head before realising she was a lot better at skinning, thereby winning her the nickname Skinner. 

They had other names, ones that came before their time in Bull’s Chargers. But Bull wanted to hold on to the little things from the Qun in how he dealt with his newfound group of misfits, and the bestowing of character appropriate nicknames was one of these, with his Chargers returning the favour by calling him Chief. 

The group expanded as it began taking more and more jobs outside of Val Royeaux, and the reputation they built up over years rivaled some more established groups and guilds that did the same or adjacent work. A ticked off career assassin or two later, the Chargers seemed nigh untouchable, with their frightening and fearless horned leader and their strange and merry band of experts in their chosen field, from apostates to dwarf sappers. 

It was two years into this new line of work when Bull came back to Val Royeaux after a particularly trying mission that Dorian asked him to move in with him. 

It took Bull a little while to realise why he looked so uncertain when he popped the question. So taken was Bull by Dorian and their amorous reunions and weeks spent together - eating, laughing, fucking and existing in comfortable silences - that he didn’t realise just how unsure Dorian was about the likelihood of a Qunari spy shacking up semi-permanently with a Tevinter mage without it raising suspicion.

Bull, on the other hand, knew what had happened to him - left out to rot far away from Par Vollen on a mission too comfortable and lax to be considered a punishment, and he had no qualms left to speak of when it came to the little things. 

The Qun was close to his heart, for many reasons. But it was Dorian Pavus lying next to him and the company of his Chargers that kept him warm through the South’s cold nights. 


	4. Spring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we have a (not so friendly) visitor, and life... goes on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY DONE. I have been so busy, but I really wanted to give this a good, meaty ending and get back to my other project, Love (Actually). I really hope y'all enjoy this! I know I did.

Val Royeaux - The Twelfth Year - Spring

The prickle on the back of his neck woke him first. 

It was like the change in the air on Seheron, the humidity filling the air so thick that you could feel it shift on your skin, more so when the water in the air was absorbed by a coming fireball from a magic-using combatant, or the heaviness was so much so that you knew it wouldn’t be long before the heavy rains fell, like the world was holding its breath before a plunge into drowning depths. 

“Morning, Kadan,” Bull murmured, as he had done for the past five years. 

The day he realised what Dorian was to him was, as Dorian so eloquently put it, “painfully plebian”, so mundane that it felt almost insulting to see it herald something so life-changing. 

Dorian had woken up early that morning, excited for the visit of his dear friend Cullen and his partner, Kaaras. It was unusual for Dorian to be awake so early, and looking so chipper at that, even if Bull knew he’d had an early night anyway, the two of them lazily fucking each other to sleep well before midnight. 

He had been puttering around their shared apartment, making sure everything was suitable for guests and they hadn’t left any of their many toys lying about, and Bull had had the absent, fleeting thought to wonder if he should feel jealous at Dorian putting so much effort into a man who he’d described as “one of the handsomest Ferelden louts he’d ever met”. 

He didn’t, though he did consider the thought, and took that opportunity to grab Dorian as he fluttered by and pull him into his lap, kissing his neck and drawing a moan out of him. 

Dorian wriggled his hips in a manner befitting his dancing, trying to free himself from his Qunari lover’s grip. “Come now, Bull, there’s no time! I have to make sure the honey cakes in the oven are ready, they’re his favourite and last I checked, he’s useless at making them. I feel sorry for his lover, but from what I hear, Kaaras is a fine cook-”

Dorian rambled on distractedly, and Bull smiled into his neck. 

“Alright, Kadan,” he’d said, before giving Dorian one last kiss and nip at the side of his throat, smacking his ass on the way up. 

Dorian had looked puzzled for a moment, but then yelped and ran to the kitchen when he heard the timer go off. It was only when the scent of fresh honeycakes, the batter of which Bull helped prepare the day before, wafted out from the kitchen, did he realise what he’d said. 

He sat there in stunned silence until Dorian came out with a fresh plate of steaming baked goods, wrapping one in a napkin and holding it up to Bull’s face. 

“Try it! I think I left it in just a tad too long, but it might have given it a crisp layer.”

Bull took an obedient bite. For something so simple, it was delicious, perfectly baked and with honeyed and buttered flavours filling his tongue and making him feel warmth in his chest and stomach both. 

“Ah, shit,” he said after swallowing the bite. 

“What! What? Is it terrible? Burnt? I don’t have time to make a new batch, but if I maybe-” Dorian said in a panic. 

“No, fuck. It’s good,” said Bull, holding Dorian by the wrist before he tried to do something drastic, like grab the rest of the batter and bake it with time and theoretical time magic, or something equally ridiculous and ill-advised. “I just…”

Dorian lifted a hand and caressed his rough cheek with such tenderness that Bull almost flinched. 

“Amatus,” Dorian had murmured, as though testing the word on his tongue. “My Bull.” And he’d kissed the soft skin of his cheek where scar tissue led to an empty socket, which he felt no more need to hide under a chafing eyepatch when it was just the two of them together. 

“Kadan,” Bull had whispered back. 

“What does it mean?”

“It means… Where the heart lies. Literally, the centre of the chest.”

Dorian had hummed, dropping his head down to rest his cheek against Bull’s broad chest. 

“The first sounds remarkably romantic for a Qunari term,” he said. 

“We’re not really supposed to feel… like this,” Bull had begun cautiously. “We can have more than one Kadan. A lot of Antaam call each other Kadan in their units, and so on.”

“But I doubt a brother in arms is how you see me,” Dorian said lightly, though had no problem hearing the tension he carried underneath the bravado. 

“I don’t really have another word for it, but I don’t think my heart lies with you,” Bull had said, making Dorian flinch before he pulled him in close, finishing with “because you _are_ my heart, Kadan.”

That day had been the day Bull saw wonder bloom on Dorian’s face, and they were hardly ready by the time Cullen and Adaar crossed the threshold arm in arm, but Dorian didn’t even really mind. 

Now, in the bed they’d shared for years, Bull reached out and found the space beside him empty. It wasn’t any cause for alarm, he knew, since it was just as likely Dorian had gotten up to fix breakfast - he was a sweetheart through and through, though he liked to pretend he wasn’t, and loved to do such thoughtful things for those he cared about. 

But he’d been going with his gut for years, and he got up and made his way to the kitchen…

And found Dorian sat at the table with a collar around his neck and a gun pointed to his head. Bull stopped at the doorway, tensing up as his eye met familiar green ones. 

“Hissrad,” said Gatt, his tone the most jovial Bull had ever heard it. Last they’d seen each other, Gatt was always angry, even when Bull - Hissrad, back then - had been the only one who could pull a smile or even a bark of laughter out of him. “Good to see you.”

“Wish I could say the same. Still could, if you put the gun down,” Bull said smoothly, but steady enough not to be construed as anything other than completely serious. 

“You know how dangerous these magisters are, more than anyone,” said Gatt, but he clicked the safety on and loosened his grip by a fraction. “But maybe not anymore. Last thing I expected to find when I got here was you shacking up with a Tevinter, and a mage besides. I knew the South made you soft, Hissrad, but I didn’t think it could ever make you stupid.”

“Yeah, well. You learn to take life’s disappointments,” Bull said, casually walking over. Gatt kept his gun trained on Dorian, but kept his narrowed eyes on Bull’s movements, clearly expecting some sort of feint. “Take the collar off him, Gatt.”

“You can’t be serious.”

Bull stopped next to the man and loomed over him, giving him a look he once reserved for only the child-murderers of Seheron who wouldn’t see the day’s end before he’d gored and slaughtered them with bullet and blade. Even Gatt, who was defiant to his very core, looked startled and terrified at the look in Bull’s eye. 

“Take. This shit. Off my Kadan,” Bull growled. Faster than the other man could react, he grasped the gun Gatt held with one strong hand, squeezing tight enough around the meat of his palm to make him lose his grip, unable to flip the safety back off before Bull took possession of the firearm and swiftly, with practised movements, unload its contents and tuck it away. 

“You really have gone mad. I didn’t believe it at first,” said Gatt darkly as Bull put his hands around Dorian’s neck and felt for the catch that snapped the collar loose when he pressed. “But living with a Tevinter mage, acting like a lovesick fool? Is it blood magic, then?”

“Shut your mouth,” Dorian said viciously, rubbing his neck with one hand while his other clenched and loosed, as though he was using every bit of self control he had not to throw a fireball. 

“The last time a Tevinter mage spoke like that to me, he ended up three pieces dead in a ditch without a face,” Gatt returned with equal viciousness, though surprisingly more controlled than Bull remembered a younger him being. 

“Stop threatening my Kadan and tell me why you’re here, Gatt,” Bull said, keeping a protective hand on Dorian’s shoulder. 

“I came to see you,” said Gatt warily, looking for all the world like he wanted Dorian far, far away from this conversation but also unwilling to let him out of his sight. “Figure out a way to get you home.”

Bull looked around the shared apartment and sighed. “I’m not going home, Gatt.”

“But you-”

“It’s been a minute,” Bull interrupted. “You really think if they wanted me back, they’d have left me here for so long?”

“You’ve had long missions before,” Gatt argued. 

“Yeah. _Missions._ Not glorified guard duty all the way in the ass-end of the world because someone couldn’t admit we had bad intel. Can’t let it be known that the priesthood _lied_ about Tal-Vashoth, or that a farming community that hasn’t had any instance of violence beyond a few arguments over their druffalo grazing beyond a property line. There’s nothing for you here, Gatt. And I’ve made the best of a bad situation.”

Gatt looked disgusted, but barrelled on anyway, and Bull remembered missing that determined, fiery look in the elf’s eyes. Now it just made him tired. 

“All you need to do is prove to the Qun that you’re more useful back home, or somewhere else, instead of here in the south, growing complacent. If it’s true you were left here, then let’s find a way to make them notice you again. Hissrad, we need you back. You were always our best.”

That made Bull laugh, which seemed to surprise both other occupants of the room. 

“Yeah, the spy with one eye and a bad leg. The best. That’s funny,” he said, slapping his knee in delight.

“Hissrad-”

“Maraas shokra, Gatt. I’ve always been adaptable. Whatever mission sent you here, you’d better get back to it before you get sanctioned.”

Gatt lowered his head, and Bull felt the creep of unease when he looked up again.

“You’ve been here a long time, Hissrad. If I found a way to convince the higher ups to bring you back… would you even come?”

Bull’s hand tightened slightly on Dorian’s shoulder. It was a question he’d thought about before. He thought about his Chargers, and the good thing they had going. He thought about the friends he’d made, and the way he’d somehow gotten Leliana to trust him. He thought about the families in the Tal Vashoth settlement, and the promises they got out of him to visit so he could play with the children. 

And he thought about Dorian, and never waking up beside him again. 

“No,” he said faintly. “I don’t think I would.”

“You’d become Tal-Vashoth for this?” Gatt said, frighteningly calm. 

“Only if you tried to push it, Gatt,” Bull said, narrowing his eyes. Gatt looked a little taken aback at that. 

“I don’t want that for you, Hissrad,” he said softly. Bull sighed, reaching over to put a firm, large hand on Gatt’s shoulder. 

“Asit tal-eb. Sataareth kadan hass-toh issala ebasit.”

Gatt looked like he might argue again, but stopped. 

“I won’t be the one to do it,” said Gatt, “because you saved me, and I owe you that. But everything changes, Hissrad. This won’t last, and you can’t be caught with your horns in your shirt when change comes crashing down on you.”

Bull gave him a firm, friendly squeeze. “Thanks, Gatt.”

When the elf finally left, almost like a shadow, Dorian finally spoke up. 

“When I have friends over, they’re usually quite a bit more respectful than that. Greet them at the door. They bring wine. They don’t hold me hostage while you two have a standoff.”

“Kadan, I’m sorry-” Bull began, but Dorian just waved a hand, chuckling. 

“Is it odd that I feel a little better after that whole ordeal? It took this for me to realise how long I’ve been waiting for disaster to strike for the Qunari spy or the runaway mage lord of Tevinter,” Dorian said. Bull lifted him by the arms off the table just to swing him into his lap as he sat. 

“I can’t believe I put you in danger like that,” said Bull softly, pressing their foreheads together. 

“Don’t be so dramatic,” said Dorian. “It would have been a mild bruising at best.”

They sat quiet for a while, before Dorian murmured, “Did you really mean that?”

“Hm?”

“When you said you wouldn’t go if the Qun tried to take you back. Did you really mean that?” Dorian said, his voice trembling. 

“I did,” said Bull softly back. 

“Amatus,” Dorian whispered with fervour. “It feels like I’ve always been waiting for you to go. To leave me. I didn’t think for a second…”

“That you’re worth staying for?” Bull whispered back. He kissed Dorian lightly, and then again. “You’re my Kadan. The Chargers are my family. This is my home. You caught me, you dangerous, beautiful man. You really think I’d let all that go so easily?”

“I don’t now,” was what Dorian said, but what Bull heard, in the way they came together in a long, drawn-out joining of lips, was _I love you._

* * *

**_EPILOGUE_ **

Val Royeaux - The Twentieth Year - Spring

Saar was afraid, when he was sundered from the Qun outside of Qunari lands. 

He’d made a mistake, born out of fear, unable to kill who he was meant to kill as a soldier. And so the reeducators looked him over to ensure he wasn’t violent, and he was placed in this little white room while an elderly Tamassran with too-sharp eyes looked over his records, then sent him - a soldier, without a unit - to Orlais by plane, with what little he had, to serve out his punishment for not listening to his commanding officer, and for not trusting in the Qun’s role for him. 

Saar meant dangerous, and he had been proud to have that nickname for a long time. 

Now it was his only name, and he didn’t feel dangerous, only afraid. 

What he didn’t expect, however, was to see a Qunari larger than most he’d met, scarred in many places and with an eyepatch, smiling welcomingly at him in arrivals as he landed in the cold South. 

He was packed into a car large enough for the Qunari, who appeared to be accompanied by two elf women, neither Viddathari from what Saar could tell, one of whom beamed friendly at him, and the other of whom looked casually murderous to nobody in particular, though it seemed mostly to be at humans. 

“Am I… Tal-Vashoth now?” he’d asked as they drove past lush green countryside that was beautiful but alien to him. 

“‘fraid so, Karasaad. But I’m here to tell you why that isn’t the end of the world,” said the large Qunari casually. “I didn’t say before. But you can call me The Iron Bull.”

“My… I mean, what brothers in my Karataam called me was Saar.”

The Iron Bull let out a booming laugh that startled him, but warmed him as well. “Nice. Maybe we can find you a place in our crew. Sounds like you know your way around a fight.”

“Only if it doesn’t involve the innocent,” Saar said softly, remembering what brought him here, sundered, Tal-Vashoth. He didn’t feel mad, but maybe that in itself was madness. 

“You’re of the Qun, then, Ben-Hassrath?” he asked. 

“Only in name, at this point,” sighed the Bull. “But my role’s gotten way more… unique. The Tamassran who sent you over who thought this would be best for you instead of forcing you into labour? She was mine, back in the day. She’s got a knack for this sort of thing.”

They stop outside what looks to be a cluster of houses and a vast, green farmland, enough to make up its own village on the outskirts of the golden spires of Val Royeaux, which Saar could see, surprisingly close, on the horizon. 

“This place is called Kost. The largest Tal-Vashoth and Vashoth settlement in Southern Thedas, and the official refugee village for Qunari down here in Orlais. Set it up with Orlais’ government, with a little help from some friends in high and hidden places. And for now… it’s home. If you want it.”

Saar’s eyes widened as they walked further into the village, seeing many of his own people looking safe, busy, and happy, with humans and elves and even a few dwarves going about their day, at peace. Far from the image of the mad Tal-Vashoth he had been taught. 

Bull crossed his arms, looking warm, and Saar saw, for the first time, the tooth hanging from his neck and the ring on one finger, the one he remembered being traditional for those outside of the Qun who united in bonds of marriage. 

“I hope you’ll find happiness here. Like I did,” said Bull. And Saar smiled. 

  
As Saar began to settle in Kost, with the help of the friendly elf who turned out to be a mage (but not really, because she was _definitely_ an archer) and the not-so-friendly elf with knives who was happy to tell him how to handle any troublemakers, The Iron Bull drove into the city, just in time to meet the beautiful, regal, well-dressed Tevinter waiting at their favourite table at the Glittering Pearl Cafe and Bar, for a pleasant morning brunch, as another year brought spring and its beautiful colours to warm the south once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It could've been a little better, I think, but I would rather have it be done than spend the next 3 months blocking myself from writing ;P Thank you to everyone who's been supportive, and to the amazing artist who made this possible!


End file.
